


The Imperial Intructrix

by squirtysadist



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe – Imp Perversion, Angst, Bondage and Discipline, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/F, POV Multiple, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29752320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirtysadist/pseuds/squirtysadist
Summary: “That’s Mary Wardwell. The Emperor wants her to act as his instructrix at Madam Spellman’s. He’s concerned for the children there.”In a universe where Sabrina Spellman no longer exists and Sabrina Morningstar is deep within the depths of Hell, Faustus Blackwood remains in power and extends authority to Mary Wardwell, unaware of the complexities that would follow by inserting her into Zelda Spellman's domain.
Relationships: Agatha/Original Mary Wardwell, Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Zelda Spellman/Original Mary Wardwell
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	The Imperial Intructrix

**Author's Note:**

> While this fic will certainly involve things with regards to caning, I would not say that this is a _happy_ fic, though the ending planned is happy for the women involved. 
> 
> Be aware, this is a bumpy, twisted, sexual road.

“And make it, so I have always been Emperor.”

A curse drifted over the town, infecting its inhabitants quickly and efficiently that not even the witches could raise their hands to protect themselves.

It shifted across the town, washing over its history and doctrine, painting over the buildings and walls until the false memories were implanted and people awoke in the light of day, taking a momentary pause to wonder why they had entered a room and what they had been speaking about. But as soon as the pause occurred, it’d finalised, and they continued about their day, singing praise to their emperor as if it had always been so.

The Imp, clever in its ways, read through the context of Faustus Blackwood’s words, knowing what he wanted. What he _truly_ wanted. So where once, there’d been two Sabrina Spellman’s, there now remained only one: deep in the circles of Hell, unaware that anything had occurred to Greendale.

The other Sabrina ceased to exist as if she’d never been. The balance was restored to the universe.

And Roz was left to herself, standing in a bathroom, uncertain as to where Sabrina had gone or what had occurred but knowing that she was by herself. Immunised, so it seemed, against the effects. And yet utterly alone.

She was not the only immunised person in Greendale. However, our story starts across the other side of town.

For Zelda Spellman, her memories maintained that she ran the Academy of Unseen Arts––now Madam Spellman’s. She did not recall her four hundred and so years on Earth, nor her worship to Satan or raising an orphaned niece.

To her, she’d lost her brother in a plane crash and had taken over his position at the school, and everything before that was hazy but not a concern, ever a woman to exist in the present.

Witches existed, yes, but none were at her school––and if they were, it was her duty to notify the Black Guard to come and take the children from the Academy, where they would investigate and then executed as necessary. But as far as she knew, she was not a witch, and to her knowledge, no one in her school was, either.

“Madam Spellman,” Nicholas asked. “You were saying?”

Zelda paused, tasting the words on her tongue. She couldn’t quite remember what she’d been saying, but given the blank look she was receiving from students, nor did they. She waved her hand. “Dismissed. To classes, please.”

The students dispersed from the assembly, leaving Zelda with a strange wonderment of what she’d been speaking about––she was certain it had been important, something to do with…witches perhaps? A reminder that with the emperor’s impending birthday, that they must all be on their best behaviour.

She moved her concerns away, her students knew better, and she trusted them to be smart. Though, as she followed their leave, she couldn’t help but feel the class numbers were rather small. Should there be more students?

More teachers?

Brief, in the psyche of her mind, Zelda was aware that _something_ had occurred to dwindle their enrolment numbers, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what.

It’d been horrible, and somehow…the emperor had been involved.

_Mass execution of witches_ , whispered the imp, soothing the need to scratch at those memories. It was why her school remained under scrutiny.

“Zelda?”

She turned to face Marie. Like her, there was a strange puzzlement to her surroundings and a sense of feeling that _something_ had occurred. But whereas Zelda felt a sense of wrongness, for Marie, the puzzlement stood that she’d been certain that she’d previously been standing elsewhere in the school and now resided here, in the main hall.

“Marie,” Zelda said, feeling grounded as she looked to the woman. “Are you able to take over this morning’s class? I suspect the emperor will be visiting today for his… _birthday_.” Zelda didn’t hide her disgust, despite its treasonous commentary. “I will need to ensure the Academy is in order.”

Although there was a certainty that _she_ didn’t have any forbidden iconography, there was an itch underneath her skin that something was wrong, and she wanted to root the issue out.

Marie agreed, taking over geography and mathematics as Zelda shifted through the Academy’s rooms one-by-one. Paintings were removed, books taken from shelves, all of which she took and stacked in her office to be confiscated.

In the dormitory, she shifted through the beds and items, flicking through items and removing anything that even looked to be of the occult––including dolls and any flowers that were pressed between books. It seemed tough and crude, but she couldn’t allow a fraction to be marked against the Academy.

She’d worked too hard for it to be taken away from her.

Though she couldn’t remember why she’d worked so hard to build this school, she knew it was important.

As if lives depended on it.

Zelda trusted her instincts. It was imperative that she remained headmistress, that she remained the last line of defence for these children, and no matter what fears were crawling underneath her skin, an aching sense of _wrong_ , she would stay the course.

Or die trying.

At the newly named Blackwood High, Mary Wardwell felt confident in who she was for the first time in her life, and yet it seemed like she’d always been this way. The fear and nervous disposition had transformed inside of her, leaving an absence inside of her that ached for something more.

Yet, despite the Imp Perversion’s attempt to eradicate any incorrect memory of old, the trauma of Hell remained in the depths of her psyche. All of that torture and horror she witnessed stretched deep inside of her, creating its own vacuum of rage to fill—a need for violence.

Even magic had its limits.

Before her first sudden death at the First Woman's hands, Mary had always been occultist in some ways, fascinated by horror and death and gore. However, she’d been raised with good Christian values, and a sense of guilt had always overlaid her desire to witness anything cruel. At least in horror movies, she didn’t feel so perverse, though there were more than a few books in her private collection, hidden away, that related to particular tastes.

But here, in the new world, there was no guilt or shame for witnessing such things. Only an _itch_ that needed to be scratched, growing all the more prominent with her newfound confidence.

When the emperor had taken Theo Putnam for witchcraft, there’d been a stirring of something akin to _sorrow_ before apathy had taken over––a witch wasn’t worthy of her empathy. No matter how good a student, they may have been in their disguise.

Whatever kindness she’d felt for the boy was eradicated.

She’d considered pulling Cadet Kinkle aside and enquiring as to how he’d missed the witchcraft in the boy, but she ended up holding her tongue. Cadet Kinkle hadn’t blinked when the emperor visited. He might have had been the one to tip off the emperor, and as such, there was no reason for her to inflict any punishment.

Pity. She wouldn’t have minded reminding him that vigilance should remain paramount, even with friends and family.

There was, however, a noticeable absence of one Rosalind Walker, but there was little she could do until she saw the girl again and enquired further. Nonetheless, Mary opened up her notebook and marked the girl’s name as suspicious, to be looked into.

Ms Walker had been blind once and then miraculously cured––she wasn’t sure why that hadn’t been investigated at the time. Still, her notable absence after Mr Putnam’s capture pointed to suspicious behaviour. Nonetheless, the missing class was cause for caning, and at the very least, hitting the girl’s palm might soothe the stirring frustration building inside of her.

Finishing her work for the day, Mary closed her books, preparing to leave for the emperor’s residence. It was time to witness the execution of the witches. She’d purchased tickets earlier that day to bear witness to such an event and was looking forward to seeing how one as mighty as the emperor dealt with such heinous creatures on such a day.

She hoped to witness bloodshed.

Anyone was permitted to the execution, held in the once known Desecrated Church, now known as the Emperor’s Hall. But tickets had to be bought from the general audience, with particular High Honoured guests permitted entrance.

The Black Guard, made-up of the Blackwood Children, were permitted to stand by the Emperor’s side, with Anubis in grip, sitting by the pulpit as Faustus welcomed in his High Honoured Guests into the hall.

Most of them were of the town council, with a few significant members of the town. Although Faustus knew them generally from his time running as the Priest of the Church of Night, he feigned political interest, taking great pleasure to watch their sycophantic meandering as they took their seats in the front pews.

His eyes turned to Prudence, watching her stand tall, a soft smile on her face. Loyalty was easily influenced, more so when he presented Agatha’s sanity to her, giving the girl back to Prudence as a gesture of good faith.

Agatha sat on the pew, her eyes looking to them curiously. He wondered if she was as aware as he was but dismissed it. Only the wish granter was immune; everyone else was influenced as he wished. There was a strangeness to how Agatha observed the world, but it was easy, incorrectly dismissed as after-effects from the sanity from the Pan creature.

“Welcome,” he greeted as the last of the guests sat down. In the second row, he noted Mary Wardwell, a newfound strength in her he’d not presented but nonetheless was pleased to see. “We are here on this auspicious occasion to condemn these witches to death. They have taken our children for the last time, threatened our world-order, and although I take no pleasure in committing this act, I know that despite their familiar faces, we must be swift and strong if we wish to assure our safety.”

He turned to the executioner, watching as they stepped forward.

Faustus had, of course, considered torturing for confession, knowing that if you hurt someone enough, they’ll confess to anything so as long as you end their suffering––but that could take days, and he didn’t have the patience for it.

Sabrina Spellman may no longer exist in the new world he’d crafted, but there was a sense that somewhere, somehow, she’d find a way to ruin his perfect world. So he nodded his head, ensuring the swiftness of two people he knew she cared about very deeply.

The blade cut fast through Nicholas Scratch’s neck. There was a gasp that ran through the hall, and then cheers. The audience clapped, though, despite the impish influence telling them this was good and right, fear trembled through as their psyche didn’t quite accept the witnessed horror. After all, the memories may tell them they were used to such events. The truth was rather more complex.

For many, this _was_ the first time they’d witnessed death, let alone execution.

There was one notable exception––Mary Wardwell. Her eyes shone, mouth parted in a soft gasp as she craned her neck to see the gore and violence. The blood spluttered from Nicholas Scratch’s longer than expected. Pumping with each heartbeat as it shot across the walls and sprayed down the floors.

Tension held until the last of the blood spilt, the heartbeat slowing until nothing remained but slow, steady drips that spilt down to the floor. Only then did the executioner moved to Theo.

Faustus nodded, signalling his approval.

The executioner's axe rose, and then there was a sudden gust of wind, a blur and the knowledge that the hobgoblin was afoot as Theo Putnam disappeared from his bindings.

Damn him.

A rage built and then ebbed inside of Faustus Blackwood. The hobgoblin could become a problem if he weren’t careful, the very escape of Theo Putnam would sow dissonance if he weren’t careful.

“Prudence?” He asked, his teeth grinding together.

“Yes, Emperor.” She said with a bow before unsheathing her sword as she walked down the pews to track the hobgoblin to its hideout.

He turned back to the audience, swallowing the anger down until it sat like a stone in the pit of his stomach. “Disappointing,” he advised, “but a reminder that we must remain vigilant––witches are amongst us.They work in packs, they work in secret, and they are working to ensure they destroy everything we’ve worked for: vigilance and force, people. Do not be afraid to turn in your neighbour. I assure you, we thoroughly investigate every claim and ensure we only capture those who have shown to bare witchcraft and ensure a confession is made before execution.”

The audience was not unintelligent by any means. Those that attended did so out of curiosity or political advantage, not for a bloodthirst. The emperor’s words were pretty enough, meant to engage fear into the audience––and to a lesser audience, it would. But they clapped and sung joyfully, knowing that any expression as to otherwise would only lead suspicion to them.

After all, how did one prove they were not a witch?

Mary was permitted to attend the birthday celebrations held in the Blackwood residence. Only those the Emperor had believed to be elite, along with those he permitted as _guests,_ were allowed attendance to such an occasion.

She was the latter, of course. Having been tapped on the shoulder by Judith Blackwood with an invitation provided to her. She alleged to have been noted for her service at Blackwood High and was cordially invited to attend.

The truth was far more direct––Faustus didn’t trust many people, and Zelda Spellman was quickly becoming a thorn in his side, even here. But Mary Wardwell may just be the perfect person to _fix_ that otherwise nasty problem of rebellious attitude stirring in the Academy.

Even Faustus could see Mary’s growing sadism. Her presence in the classroom and at the execution had shined a lovely spotlight on her, and his history working with her over the past few weeks had led him to find Mary amicable, despite her unfortunate mortal state.

A hunger lurked in Faustus to ensure he grip on power, and Mary would suit those needs as required––so he believed.

Luckily for him, their desires aligned quite nicely.

For Mary, the execution had filled her with a sense of contentment––it was as the aching emptiness inside of her had been filled momentarily at the sight of bloodshed. But at each moment passed, the emptiness crept back bit-by-bit, a rage growing inside her with every moment, itching underneath her skin.

For now, it was bearable, but there would not be an execution again so soon unless Theo Putnam were captured––even then, that was likely to be a private execution, given the powerful nature of him and his cohort. No, to fill such rage inside of her, she would need to alter her activities, become someone who was… _prominent_ in the Emperor’s circles. It would allow her a more consistent way to feed the growing sadism.

She would not waste this occasion.

Mary’s eyes flickered over the attendees, noting Greendale’s mayor and city council, as well as a few influential families.

However, it was up against the wall beside the Black Guard's eldest, where Mary’s attention shifted. A woman stood with her hands clasped before her, her hair in twin plaits and a strange look to her face––as if pinched in concern. And when her eyes met Mary’s, they lit up before becoming clouded once more as they looked away.

Mary dismissed her curiosity as she studied the rest of the room.

Unlike witches, mortals were not so lucky as to be immunised against the Imp Perversion––as such, there was only a faint inkling of familiarity that dulled as she turned her attention away from the woman she’d once known to be Agatha.

Her attention shifted to glancing around the hall, looking for the Emperor––hoping to have a chance to speak to him about her desires to help the cause in more…active ways.

Agatha was unaffected by the curse, and as such, when she saw Mary, there was a momentary hope that she, too, was unaffected, before she noticed that way Mary dressed, the way she stood, her eyes flicking over the room to observe. This was not _her_ Mary Wardwell, and as such, her interest shifted away from whatever Mary had become.

Prudence was different, even from how she was before the Pagans came into town. Dorcas was missing, and no one could tell her why. It was a lonely experience, and although she kept her thoughts muted, showing eagerness to be at Prudence’s side, there was a terrible ache at how things had been.

She didn’t mind serving Father Blackwood, standing at his side and doing what was needed and necessary for the Eldritch Terrors, but it’d been lonely. She’d missed her sisters, and Judith and Judas were as fun as golems to play with.

Mary, at least, had been something. Mortal as she was, her hand had been warm, and there’d been warmth in how she looked at her despite the lurking curiosity underneath the so-called Christian image (shaken by witnessing the Devil himself).

_I know what it’s like to be alone. If you ever need company, you can always pop round for some biscuits. I make a good shepherds pie, too._ _That is if…if your kind eat as we do._

**_We only drink the blood of the innocent on special occasions_.**

_Oh. Oh! That’s a joke. Very funny, dear. Well then, how about I bring some around tomorrow. I know he forgets about those sorts of things, and I worry that you’re not getting enough nutrients. We need to be strong, after all. For what comes next._

“Agatha?” Prudence summoned.

Her eyes looked to her sister. “Yes?”

“You looked far away. Was something wrong?”

“There are more people than I expected,” she said, feigning her disinterest in crowds. “No cute boys.”

Prudence nodded and looked away. Agatha recalled how, in a different world, Prudence would have laughed and pulled her close, pointing out all the mischief they could enact together instead. But this wasn’t her Prudence. It wasn’t her, Mary. And it certainly wasn’t her world any more.

A part of her wished she was still insane.

She watched as Father Blackwood made his way across the room, mingling with his guests. As Judas and Judith kept a close distance, Anubis in hand. And even observed Prudence as she leant against the wall, eyes wide open, watching out for any danger. But mostly, her eyes kept finding them drifting back to the dark hair of Mary Wardwell as she sipped at a single glass of champagne, polite in conversation, though it seemed even here she did not enjoy socialising.

“Who’s that woman?” She asked Prudence.

“Who?” Prudence asked before noting where Agatha’s eyes were looking. “That’s Mary Wardwell. The Emperor wants her to act as his instructrix at Madam Spellman’s. He’s concerned for the children there.”

“Witches?” Agatha asked.

Prudence nodded. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

Agatha sighed and wondered if Prudence could feel the magic in their blood, calling out to be used. It’d been only a day since she’d done a charm, and yet it seemed to build inside of her, reaching out to curse or charm the inhabitants.

Tapping against her skin, she cast a minor warming charm against herself––unnoticeable, undetectable, but the need to pulsate magic softened.

“Do you think the Emperor would allow me to become one of his guards?” She asked.

“No. But if you’re on your best behaviour, he may allow you to wander the grounds. Would you like that?” Prudence meant the words sincerely but laced them with condescension. It only left a bitter taste in her mouth.

No, but perhaps there were other things she could do, places she could be.

Faustus led Mary to his office. There, he poured them whiskey, taking the champagne glass from her hand to replace it with the crystal of his private collection.

“Forgive my candour,” he began, “but your work with your students is quite revered.” It was a small lie––after all, _this_ Mary Wardwell had only existed for eleven hours. “I am in need of someone with your…tenacity to deal with a problem I have.”

“And what problem is that?” Mary inquired.

“Problems like Theo Putnam. There’s another school, smaller but a danger to the world-order we’ve set,” he advised. “It’s my desire that you could use your skills to weed out any concerns that might be lurking in the shrubbery, so to speak.”

“Of course,” Mary agreed. “I’m happy to serve the Empire.”

Faustus sensed the _but_ and waited, his patience thinning as the woman gave a sharp smile. It was not unlike the demon he’d met with the same face, and for a moment, he wondered if perhaps the curse had confused the two (it hadn’t).

“I would need complete oversight and power within the school––nothing that oversteps your own, of course,” Mary advised quickly, blinking rapidly as she softened her expression. “But for complete obedience in such _troubling_ times as this, I believe a firm hand is required. Often I think some of the children are…dabbling in these magics not because _they are_ witches but because they’re moths drawn to the flame. They want to feel special and important because it gives them a sense of purpose. We need to eradicate that need by showing them what will occur.”

Faustus paused. He’d chosen Mary because beneath what he viewed as a drab exterior, there was a sharpness of wit he couldn’t help but exploit––and seeing the hunger in the woman’s eyes, seen only once before when mentioning her displeasure of Sabrina Spellman, showed that with a backbone, Ms Wardwell _could_ be a force to be reckoned with.

Dangerous.

But right now, easy to manipulate and hold loyalty over––so he believed.

“I will need to be made aware of the finer details, but let it be known that I will hold you as the instructrix in this, and as such, it comes with power and authority over Madam Spellman’s. It is your duty to ensure the school is a model standard for us. I would like to repurpose it for some of our more elite students eventually, and as such, require the insurgence to be eradicated wherever it may be.”

“I believe we have an understanding,” Mary advised, sticking out her hand. There, Faustus grabbed it, shaking it once and then twice before letting go.

He may not trust the mortal, but he believed he knew her well enough to control her. To him, that was enough.

For Mary, a part of her was flattered at the attention provided, whilst the other part remained entirely focused on the need itching under her skin. She would eradicate the problem, showing off her skills, and hopefully be able to position herself closer to what she desired.

There was an inevitably with teenagers, after all. Their emotions were in flux, and there would always be a need to rebel against authority. It provided her with an everlasting position to inflict the much-needed punishment on those that required it.

Or so she thought.

The truth of the matter was that she would soon meet a much more delicious option that she hadn’t considered, and as a result, everything Faustus build would be jeopardised by his own hand. And that was just the way the Imp desired it.

There was an inevitably of the end, of finalisation––it was the journey that mattered, and the Imp could count on this being a long, terrible journey.

Time to buckle in.


End file.
